Friday, January 18, 2019

*Albinius says otherwise. He errs.His sources for an ill-conceiving creedAre elderly ex-chamberlains and eunuchs,Village crones and plods deprived of the senseAnnounced to a scarecrow, those who took their cuesFrom discount chickens, virgins secondhand,And scholars from the farmhouse provinces.As every schoolboy knows, the archers filledHis orifices with their arrows. PrayFor him, but do not emulate his art.He burns in Hell and weeps black tears of ink.(It is no sin to benison the damned,Whatever El Chimayo says, the damned.)

°Albumen, King, who found that historyIrenic--they had lied, the scribal tribe.The Church Pacific strewed its road, on donkeys,With palms and psalms; and all its paths were peace.Albumen, King was thrown into a pitOf Bulgars, Albigensians, and Swedes.No fragments of him ever were retrieved.

•It sounds absurd, and yet proved true. I wentMyself, with native guide, and saw the place,A dog to follow and a wife to heel.I touched the Rock, the Rock was warm. My senseOf touch is unimpeachable. What elseExplains the errors of the Early Crypts?Deceived by Occam’s Razor Blade, they shavedA world away and found a Heaven there.I recommend The Liber Book, ƒ. 2.

§Cf., op. cit., to-wit, to-woo. Tra-la,The placard on the temple wall proclaimed,In Greek first, Latin after, sing tra-la,The angels have been with us from the firstAnd bless the martyrs in their shattered stateAnd bear their broken bones away and praiseThe bearded monarchs who have made it so.Nevertheless, Albinius was wrong.

Sunday, January 13, 2019

Their pilgrimage began before the light,Before the squabbles of the little birdsPilgrims forswore. And they were going where?To where the road concluded. Since this wasTheir latter days, that just might mean the sea,The culmination, surely, of strange strands,Pounding a plainsong once, twice, dot, dot, dot.They’d rather it would end against a wallInvisible to those of little faith,Studded with jasper, joined without a joint,And crowned with fire or with Dagon’s rocIn chains, something spectacular, withoutCurios at the exit, something noneKnew substantives sufficient for. They broughtA change of shirt, a charger for the phone,And water double-filtered to removeImpurities. They sang car tunes withoutThe words, not all the words. They thought they’d leftThe word behind, the first rest stop enclosedBy plastic fence. The map said, You Aren’t There.

Wednesday, January 02, 2019

The word is out that Laird is back in town,Or maybe not-—he doesn’t advertise.Cagey as always, full of little bitsOf wisdom-lit and recipes and stillA handsome highwayman, he’s double beltedWith bullets, bone-knobbed pliers, and a compass.He sings too loudly, talks too loudly, eatsPeculiar combinations. He won’t lodgeWith those who need him; he won’t go away,Not before night. Or autumn. He makes rulesAs need requires. Once he wouldn't budgeUntil the last pin-oak leaf had detached.One of us climbed the tree and shook it down,Unable to face any more of Laird.

Tonight we wait for resurrection men.We’re told the sod will open in the park,And frontier mamas, babies dead of croup,And gambling dudes in rotted vests will rise.There are agnostics, certainly, but Laird,He has his ways. Leastways, he keeps things warm.

Even the trees have changed since these were laidIn certainty of dark and dank. I shallFulfill some promise, Laird says, or I’ll bearWitness to unfulfillment. There are newStones since then, most likely trucked in from Creede.Do you believe in Everlasting Life?He asks me. I do not. What I believeHas not changed much since I was 17,When I first said that absence was a gift.

There is no sound, except the trucks that leave.The park is closed. The turf lies still. And LairdIs nowhere you can find. He’s been and gone,The cartilage of stories. What a waste,The scent of pine borne past us on the breeze.

Friday, December 28, 2018

A foot of snow descended on the house,

All fall at once, and we pretended joy
At such a purty fluffiness, and broke
Our backs and shovel blades, and prayed for spring.
Spring would arrive; but not because of us
The snow grows grass and lubricates the bulbs
Stripped from their husks it promised and delivered.
Summer, which disbelieves in snow, will swear
Sweat is the moisture agriculture named;
But summer lies, and winter lasts: within
The master bedroom wall a cache of snow
Waits and concedes no melting, never melts.

Monday, December 24, 2018

As I wrote here in April, 2008, I found this poem in a drawer a while back. I don't remember when I wrote it, but it must have been a long, long time ago. It's pleasant to observe that my facility with blank verse has improved: this seems stiff to me, and the blank verse I write now is more limber--it can do tricks up on the balance beam that this can't. On the other hand, I'm also pleased to find "Under the snow the dead are staying dead/again this year," lines I've often quoted without remembering that I was the one who wrote them.

You claim that you live in Montana, somewhereundisclosed but big, since it is Montana,with dogs of course, under eponymousbig skies. It may be like The Ponderosa.It may be just a little 50's house,brick and right angles, all the rooms too smallfor all the children's scheduled occupation.

Regardless, this is where you claim to be,vacuuming dogs, shampooing your fiancé,writing good prose, and waiting for the eveof someone's savior's birth to change your world.The eve will come, if not the savior.Under the snow the dead are staying deadagain this year. Achieving the right tone

to talk about the still dead dead would taxthe festive certitude of anyone.Your coming roster of visiting kin,expecting nogs and cakes, presents and pizza,won't want to hear about your doubts. They knowwhat Santa does and what he never says.They like a creche. They like a mistletoe

above their heads, a Baldur's dart. You canforetell what's coming, you and absent friends,alone in your fashed kitchen, late late night,toasting a yule, whatever yules may be.The dogs asleep and snoring, dreaming dog,you in your underwear and hoisting bourbon,know what you know and not a nickel more.